Number One Fan

(2)

I know her, maybe not very well, but hers is a familiar face. Blue eyes that would light up whenever she was in our shows, back when my band was still active. She probably doesn't know it, but I notice that. She's young and somewhat pretty, a little plump, the naive type. I smirk. The typical fan. The typical obsessed fan.

How her blue eyes opened fearfully wide, her pupils dilated, when she woke up in the basement, where I brought her. How she screamed into the duct tape that secured the ball gag I shoved into her mouth and struggled against the jute ropes I tied her to an armchair with. I guess my shibari skills are improving, all thanks to Janine letting me practice with her, on her.

"You must be a really avid fan," I told her as she whimpered and squirmed, "to know exactly where I live. You think you know everything about us... and about me."

Janine was behind her, stroking her disheveled hair, shushing to comfort her. I could never ask for a better wife. "You'll be okay," she whispered into the poor girl's ear, "so long as you give Master what he wants."

I could never ask for a better servant.

"I'd like to... reward you for your devotion," I told the pudgy stupid little bitch. "I know that you'd love to know what happened to Nico. What I did to him."

Tears streaked down her duct-taped cheeks and sobs tried to escape her gag as I told her how I held my bandmate and best friend in the same place I held her. Nico was a bit lankier than I, also taller by a few inches. I knocked him out with a baseball bat I used for anything but baseball. Nico was lucky. I only bound him naked and upside down to the X-cross behind me. I'm sure my stalker saw that cross, and the fear the sight of it brought her delighted me. And the only injury I inflicted upon Nico was slicing his manhood, cock and balls, off of him, very slowly, centimeter by excruciating centimeter. Ah, the satisfying trickling of blood from his crotch to his lips constantly agape in screams of anguish. Yes, I scream in our songs, and Nico does, too, but nothing is as exciting as screams of unadulterated agony. When his genitals were hanging onto his body by only a centimeter or two of skin, I ripped them off of him with my bare hands. Nico shrieked. I grinned, I rarely ever genuinely did. I felt my own cock harden. I shoved his severed private parts down his throat and sealed his mouth with duct tape, watched him bleed, and listened to his stifled cries for a long while before leaving him there to die.

I held Stalker Girl down there for days. Each day, I upped her torment a notch. Sometimes, Janine joined me, but most of the time I was alone with my captive. I starved her-"You need to lose some of those fats"-then had her eat and drink like a leashed dog, her arms bound behind her so that she had to press her face against the platter. Drugged her to make her mind play tricks on her. Made cigarette burns on random points on her skin (neither Janine nor I smoke cigarettes, but you get the idea). Injected sewing pins into her nail beds, then removed her nails. Poured hot wax on where her skin is most sensitive. Electrocuted her. Hit her-first with my belt, a wooden paddle next, then a cane with seashell spikes, and then a whip. Touched her where I know she had wanted me so long to touch her as a reward for her endurance. Forced myself into her and made sure she tasted me, too-something for her to take to hell with her.

She would desperately plead for me to just kill her now, but the truth is I didn't really want to kill her.

I wanted to hear her scream.

And I would do everything to force the most bloodcurdling screams I could get out of her.

And she would realize that no matter how loud she screamed, nobody could actually hear her. Nobody would. Just me, Janine when she would join me down here, the basement walls, and my recording equipment. Unless some motherfucker sees and tells the police, nobody would come to her rescue. I murdered Nico Saez, one-half of the Ten of fucking Swords, the Grammy award-winning prog rock duo, and disposed of him-in pieces, by pieces-down the nearby river, and all the police know is that he is fucking missing. They're like headless chickens fumbling for a needle in a haystack, and they've been acting that way for years. It's fun to see the police in such a state.

Nico is lucky indeed. His death, though slow, harrowing, and humiliating, is brief compared to that of Stalker Girl, my Number One Fan.

She won't be the last.

I bind her arms behind her and suspend her so that she hangs naked, exposed, upside down by the bamboo platform I made for my bondage sessions with Janine, her head about a couple of feet off the floor, the tips of her hair sweeping some dust off. I force her to wear a mouth prop and she squeals as I make tiny deep cuts on both corners of her lips with a scalpel. I then remove the mouth prop. By now, seven days into captivity, she's too limp to struggle. All she can do is blubber and scream, and she's already shouted herself hoarse.

I clip her nipples with wooden pegs, give them sudden, sharp tugs, lick their ends, and pull hard again and again. Stimulate and violate her with a wand vibrator and a makeshift fuck machine. Then hit her with a cat-o'-nine-tails. Each time she moans and yelps out of extreme pleasure or pain, she tears at her lips' corners bit by motherfucking bit.

I got the wooden paddle and patted it against my palm.

"Just... fucking kill me, Sam... Master... please..."

Her body is slick with sweat and adorned with cuts, whip lashes, and bruises. Her face wet with mingled sweat, blood, drool, snot, and tears. Bruised, bloodshot, terrified blue eyes.

I get a hold of a paddle and tap it lightly against the middle of her legs, on the bones. Then, I swing. Hard.

The loud thump. The resounding crack of bones. Her long, shrill, lip-ripping shrieks.

I step back to see her smile. A big, bloody one stretching from ear to fucking ear.

I smile back.

Then, walking back to her, I unbuckle my belt and unzip my fly.

the end